[OPEN] Oh, I will sleep when we reach shore

[carnagecarnival]

Who| The Initiate & OPEN 

What| The Initiate gets inspired and paints something new

Where| The Training Center once more

When| Any time this week

Warnings| Really foul language and the Initiate being a terrible person forever

He's been there since early evening, and seemingly hasn't left even now that it's mid-day. He'd been there long before anyone else had arrived at least, and more than ever before, with almost feverish intensity, he's been focused on painting the wall, using the paints he's nabbed from the camouflage area.

The painting goes high as he can reach and stretches wide across the wall. At the end he now works, four dark poles rise up and curve over the color, with ribbons of all sorts of hues wrapping and falling around each like a maypole, weaving itself into tents that bleed into near inscrutable designs of death and demons below.  At each pole end, red and blue lights twist together in union, and on the forth a loose band of wider yellow spreads and breaks off into light yellow bubbles, and as they reach on, into skulls of varying color; greens and blues and purples, reds and browns. Circus imagery is woven in with a priest's reverence. A shoreline of water makes appearance atop the yellow band, a simple handprint smear of white in the sea with a mark of Purple-Indigo atop that, dripping down onto the yellow and making like to rot. In the darkness, the bit of sea, a star of swallowing pink twists. Then, above even that, a looming pair of bright eyed figures with knives for teeth observe the scene below. Beasts and trolls, colors and shapes make up the picture. The entire image is a mess of rainbow that still manages to make itself look unnerving. There isn't a logic or sense to it, it's entirely a painting made from madness.

As he prefers it.

Coming into the Center, it would be hard not to notice it. Perhaps, depending on who you were, it would be just as hard to ignore. Certainly there was much to look at. Even the Initiate himself seemed to be covered in color up to his arms and then some. But rainbows couldn't be that scary. Could they?

Comments

[knifewithnoname]

Pruna walked into the training room to practice her throwing daggers and stopped when she saw the painting. She had never seen much point in painting before but this one looked very interesting and he stepped forwards going to examine the madness looking up and down as she took in all the details.

[carnagecarnival]

He keeps painting in the finer details down below, as he notices her out of the corner of his vision. He grins.

"Does a Nameless sister take to liking?" He thought she might. Like calls to motherfucking like, afterall. And like him, she seemed to take to the cull and its ways. Perhaps it would have held even more so if the color still came from culls.

[knifewithnoname]

"You did be painting it?" She asked wrinkling her nose, and then she nodded. "It do be being beautiful."

[carnagecarnival]

"PAINTING IT HE DID BE UP AND MOTHERFUCKING DOING," he replies. "Comes of holy vision. COMES OF WHAT IS PREACHED AND HEARD AND TOLD THE FUCK OVER AGAIN FOR THE NINJA BITCHES WHAT FIND AT THE GUTS TO THEM." He gestures with paint coated fingers. "Come." He takes to the paint closest to indigo, his own color, and scoops it up in his hand to hold out to her. "MAKE MOTHERFUCKING MARK. A hand's blessing will do."

[knifewithnoname]

She looked at the paint suspiciously, she had never really seen it before, though she had seen paintings in a few of the richer houses she had had jobs in. She dipped a finger in the paint experimentally wrinkling her nose at the feel of it. She sniffed at it and wrinkled her nose again and then with a look at the Initiate to check it was alright she made a purple swirl on the wall.

[pythianjudgment]

It's late when Terezi finds herself wandering into the Training Area, and the smells wafting towards her are immediately breath-taking. They accost her senses with a mess of feelings: danger and madness held loosely together by something appealing...almost beautiful. She's not sure what to make of the collage, but she likes it, even with the demons and beasts thrown in, even with the circus motif that reminds her far too much of someone she knows.

Speaking of people she knows, her heart nearly stops when she catches scent of the artist. For a moment, all she smells is winding horns and wild hair and the shape of someone much taller than anyone deserves to be. It sets a familiar anger through her, but she's careful not to react this time. She's already mistaken one person today.

"How long did this take you?" she asks, not bothering to mask her admiration for the artwork. Good art deserves to be appreciated, regardless of the artist.

[carnagecarnival]

He glances over his shoulder at her and is surprised to find a troll there, one he doesn't recognize. He raises a brow.

"A motherfucking day's sleep worth and some," he says, still painting. Trolls don't normally take to the paintings, mostly because dead trolls are what he tends to use to paint them. Even if it's not now, surely any troll could guess. He wonders why this one doesn't react the same.

He paints on a bit of red. "AND WHO ALL WOULD A NEW SISTER BE?"

[pythianjudgment]

He doesn't know her. That settles that, then. She's almost disappointed at the resolution of that matter. Maybe she was really hoping it would be him, though she can't fathom why. (Or rather, she can, but she just doesn't want to.)

"Terezi Pyrope. District Three," she answers, like one would citing a posted station. This is where she will serve her time. District 3. She thinks it sounds better that way, business-like.

"You're an Indigo, huh?" It isn't so much of a question as a confirmation. It would be difficult to mistake him for anything else with the sprawling colors on the wall next to him. She takes a few steps closer, coming up to an arms length from the wall and just about twice that from the troll. She wants to touch it, to feel if the paint is dry, but she doesn't.

"What's your name? Where do they have you stationed?"

[carnagecarnival]

"Correct in inquiry she'd up and be. STRAIGHT TO THE MOTHERFUCKING CENTER GUTS OF THE FUCKING MATTER WITH CLEANEST PUNCTURE. A blue of some sort, but she strikes not as cerulean," He says. He looks her over, examining her stance. "TEAL THEN?"

All business, she seems to be. It's almost like being back on Alternia.

"TITLE, sister Pyrope, BE THAT OF THE INITIATE," he says, then smirks slightly, "Station true be that of the motherfucking Subjugglaters, ONE OF THE HOLY CHURCH. But for now he makes hive-stay among the district of fucking fifth."

He's curious about her rapture in regards to the paint, curious as to whether she will look to engage in some way, but he makes no encouragement (nor discouragement).

[pythianjudgment]

His guess at her blood color pulls a meager grin to her lips. It draws her attention away from the paint, and she turns her head towards him for the first time. "Teal and proud of it. A Legislacerator-in-training."

It's sort of funny to think back to her old aspirations. Before the whole universe imploded on itself via video game. And it's funny that just when she'd given up on anything remotely resembling what her life should have been... She runs into this young Subjugglator.

District five... She stores that knowledge away for later. There's no telling if she'll need it or not, but it's nice to know what They have them classified as. She also notes the title given rather than a name. He doesn't seem much older than her, but it must be old enough to have joined the Fleet properly.

"I like this," she says, returning to her musing regarding the paints. She reaches up finally, tentatively touching the edge of the water. Her fingertips come back dry, thankfully. "There's passion in here, strong enough to feel it. I can't say I care much for the Church one way or another, but... This is beautiful."

She's quiet for a moment, another list of curiosities going through her head before she finally asks one: "Do you have a partner assigned back home?"

[nunpunching]

Punchy can't help but feel a little unsettled as he looks into madness. It's like that time he went all psychodrama in Sykes' head. A little too close to home, a little too uncomfortable, a little like the insides of his own brains have been splattered all over the wall.

"Huh." He stops in front of it, running his cloth and wooden puppet in his hands. "This ate-up shit needs a bit of a check up from the neck-up, dawg. You got something postal rattling around your headbones?"

[carnagecarnival]

He almost expects an indigo like himself when he hears such phrasing, but Punchy is what he peers over his shoulder and sees. He grins anyway, all teeth, and chuckles as he turns back to the painting, "Motherfucker, I am of indigo, I am of CIRCUS AND MESSIAHS. DIS-FUCKING-RESPECT and LIES on a motherfucking twitcher what to preach that there were to all up and motherfucking be NONE WHAT HOLDS TO MOST MIRTHFUL MADNESS, what holds for most uproarious fucking cacophony."

He smears a hand print of red onto the mess. "FEEL ILL FOR WHAT DON'T. Could almost fucking feel ill for the squealing masses. QUESTION MOTHERFUCKING IS, do you?" He shoots another grin back and laughs. He doesn't really expect Punchy to answer.

[nunpunching]

"Shit does that mean, brother? I ain't indigo, I'm ice." Punchy rarely gets to ask this question of other people. It's almost refreshing to not have it directed at his own strange dialect. "I feel ill for the peeps out there when I be's flossin', but day to day I think they's up on the ins, you know? Shit here runs breezy."

You know, aside from the murdergames. Punchy steps forward and touches the artwork.

"Where you get the spacks for this, dawg?"

[carnagecarnival]

"MEANS this motherfucker is down with clown. BUT NEVER SAID AT A BROTHER ICE WAS INDIGO. Though if he recognizes shit what lay before him perhaps he too is of like mind," he muses, half-joking. He doubts anyone here truly would understand, but he's willing to give points for effort, intentional or not.

"BREEZY, he says. PERHAPS. Would say it more to be airtight fucking suffocating, BUT THAT'S ALL TO BE THE WAIT."

The Initiate watches him touch the wall without comment, merely watching for Punchy's reaction. When questioned, he gestures over his shoulder with a thumb. "Station over made for use of camouflage. AS WELL AS INKS OF HIS OWN COLLECTION BEGINNING."

[69problems]

It's strange, but in all the sweeps the Signless had known about the Highblood, he'd never actually seen one of his paintings. He wonders now if that changed, before he died. Maybe he became one of those paintings, a bright red the Highblood couldn't get anywhere else.

Still, he can't help but wander in that direction. He's taking a break from being put through his paces by Karkat (they've been working for hours and he's barely even been allowed to touch the sickles), so he probably looks just a little worse for wear.

He isn't sure what to say, so he just looks, a sickle dangling loosely from one hand.

[carnagecarnival]

He waits, stiff and tense, for what feels to him like a long time, for the Signless to either speak up or leave. He stirs one color without really seeing it and splashes it up onto the wall like the spatter of recent cull. His teeth grind and his claws dig into his palms.

"THE FUCK do you WANT, Signless?"

Finally, he concedes to look. He almost laughs when he sees the sickle.

"PLAN IN PAN TO STRIFE?" He sneers.

[69problems]

He shakes his head no, still inspecting the painting. There's something familiar about that yellow band, about those red and blue lights, and it makes him uneasy.

"No. I was just looking. It's beautiful work." He really does mean that, too. Even if the subject matter isn't his cup of tea, the skill and clear love that went into it is impressive, and it's a little less terrible when he knows that the paints the humans use aren't made of blood. That and he knows he couldn't take the Initiate in a fight, not even if the other troll was half-asleep and had a cold.

[carnagecarnival]

"Wouldn't get up to expecting such oration spit," He says, and it's clear from his tone he's half certain it's a lie. He's never heard so many people give compliment on his work- or at all, really, save what the Helmsman had said at one point, but he'd written that off as related more to his status and power than anything else.

"WOULD THINK AT HIM TO DIS-FUCKING-APPROVE. Would motherfucking think at it to disgust him," He says. It's bitter, but not exactly awash with rage. Yet.

[earthborn]

Shepard tends to regard almost any expression of art as beyond her ken. Very rarely does she listen to music, she's never seen more than a few vids, and her deepest interaction with serial storytelling is a passing knowledge of the most recent plot synopsis adverts for Blasto: The First Hanar Spectre. The Initiate's painting is colorful, but that's about as far as she's willing to go in her analysis; she'll never be the maestro of any artform not directly related to killing people.

"Alright, I'll bite. What the hell am I looking at here?"

[carnagecarnival]

And the funny thing about that is that, it is, in fact, directly related to killing people. At least, it was when he was allowed to cull trolls for their blood.

"Would up and depend at where she directs ocular, wouldn't it?" he says, still idly smearing color. "CAN'T SEE AT THROUGH A SISTER'S MOTHERFUCKING JELLY PITS LEST SHE OFFERS UP EMPTY NUG CASING WHAT TO LOOK THE FUCK THROUGH. Perhaps what first ought to be told is what she thinks to see."

[earthborn]

Now that was just plain rude. Probably. He spoke like he painted, in a smoky mixture of profanity and pronoun abuse, and versed though she tended to be in the eccentricities of alien dialect, Shepard had to squint a minute to decipher what the hell he'd just said. Ah.

"Honestly? A goddamn mess," Because she's never been one to back down, our Shepard, "I mean, how bored are you?"

[carnagecarnival]

The Initiate goes still.

"SISTER," he growls, without looking back. "Let him tell at you. LET HIM FUCKING DEPART SUCH HONEST WORDS UNTO SHE BECAUSE SHE ASKED SO MOTHERFUCKING NICELY. He is. VERY. Mother. FUCKING. Bored. CONTINUE TO REMIND HIM AND PERHAPS HE WILL FIND AT MEANS OF ALLEVIATING IT." And with reminder of such sin of boredom, his mood is fouled. He doesn't particularly feel like painting anymore.

"Who would you all be at anyway?" he snaps, turning so as to see her. "ONLY THE TONGUE-CUT WHAT CLEAN SO AIN'T NO REASON FOR HER TO FUCKING CARE NOW IS THERE?"

[needsaprince]

"It reminds me of some of that European art..." Lottie, who has been plucking away at teaching herself some basic survival skills, had wandered over to watch him paint.

"All the new styles...I guess here they aren't very new, though."

Big Daddy had scoffed at them, but Lottie had enjoyed them on some level in the gallery showing they'd gone to. Different.

[carnagecarnival]

“WOULDN’T KNOW AT TO WHAT SHE REFERS,” he responds after a moment, staying focused on the wall before him. “Ain’t from her world, if it weren’t to being motherfucking obvious.” He chuckles a little.

“GOT NO MORE KNOW AT FOR HER TIME. But he can tell you, from word of high, ‘new’ ain’t a fucking thing what gets existence past first breath. EXPECT AT THE OLD TO BECOME NEW AGAIN AS NEW BECOMES OLD. Truth laid out, far as he’s concerned, time, is all to being concocted at whatever fucker is about making reference unto it.”

He finally turns to her, a curious expression upon his painted face. “WOULD HE CONCLUDE THEN, she is from a past of this time?”

[needsaprince]

His speech was almost like a riddle, and today, at least, Lottie felt prepared to decipher it for a bit.

"Compared to most people here, yes I am indeed from the past." She said, deciding to settle on that aspect. "Though from here, most of us seem to be. I'm just farther back then some."